Asleep.
Her face was different like this. Softer. The sharp edges smoothed away, the professional armor stripped off like a coat she'd finally set down.
She looked younger. Vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be when she was awake.
I should wake her.
The thought crossed my mind and kept going, replaced by something quieter. Something that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing you shouldn't look down.
I watched her breathe instead.
The slow rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips parted slightly. The small furrow between her brows meant she was dreaming about something that worried her even in sleep.
Eight years.
I'd spent eight years trying to forget this face. Trying to stop seeing it every time I closed my eyes.
And here she was, asleep on my couch like no time had passed at all.
I stood. Moved quietly toward my bedroom.
The sheets. I should change the sheets.
They were clean, I wasn't the kind of person who let things go, but suddenly clean didn't feel like enough.
I stripped the bed. Dug through my closet until I found the good ones, the set my mother had given me years ago that I'd never used because they felt too nice for just me.
I remade the bed. Smoothed the corners. Adjusted the pillows.
Then I went back to the living room.
She hadn't stirred. Still curled in that same position, laptop sliding slowly toward the edge of her knees. I caught it before it fell. Set it on the coffee table beside her notes.
I should wake her.
Instead, I slid one arm under her knees. The other behind her back. Lifted her against my chest.
She weighed almost nothing. Or maybe I was just used to carrying heavier things—bodies and equipment and the accumulated weight of years of guilt.
She fit against me like she'd been designed for it, her head tucking naturally into the space below my chin.
"Garrett?" Her voice was thick with sleep. Confused.
"It's okay." I kept my voice low. Steady. "Go back to sleep."
She didn't argue. Just turned her face into my chest, her breath warm through my shirt.
Her fingers curled against the fabric, holding on.
My hand was still on the doorframe. Gripping it. I made myself let go.
I carried her to my bedroom. Laid her down on the sheets I'd just changed, the good ones that suddenly seemed inadequate for the weight of this moment.
She made a small sound—protest or contentment, I couldn't tell—and curled onto her side.
I pulled the blanket up to her chin. Stood there for a moment, watching her settle into sleep.
Then I made myself leave.
